


You're drunk, you're not driving

by i_gaze_at_scully



Series: Movie night [2]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Fluff and Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-09-06 20:06:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16839493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_gaze_at_scully/pseuds/i_gaze_at_scully
Summary: Early MSR/friendship, post-ep for Beyond the Sea. Mulder and Scully establish a movie night tradition.





	You're drunk, you're not driving

It’s a little thing of theirs, from early on. After a particularly taxing case, they’d head back to one of their places, pop in a movie, and make up a drinking game. Mulder recalls later that it started after the Boggs case, after Mr. Scully died. It had been an emotional roller coaster of a case for both of them, and hell, he’d been shot. He supposed that when the post-ride nausea hit, it wouldn’t hurt to come down together.

Scully drives them home from the airport.

“I can drive if you want, Scully,” he offers, wired as usual.

“I’m fine, thanks.” She drops her bag into the trunk and makes for the driver’s side door, her hand wrapped around the keys. Mulder realizes she never jangled her keys the way most people do. He catalogs this trivial bit of knowledge and deposits his own carry-on in the trunk.

There is no tension in the silence that fills the ride back to his apartment, yet Mulder shifts uncomfortably in his seat every few minutes. He doesn’t want to leave it like this, leave her like this. It just doesn’t sit right with him. _Idle hands are the devil’s playthings_ , he thinks, remembering her insistence on returning to work after her father’s death.

“Wanna come up for a movie?” he asks, one arm resting nonchalantly on the door and the other scratching lines into his thigh. They are still five or so minutes out from his apartment. His invitation is met with silence, so he adds, “It won’t come from my ‘ _collection_ ,’ if that’s what you were thinking. Promise.”

The marble cracks for a minute and a smile flashes briefly across her face. She acquiesces with the condition that they pick up some beer on the way. He’s slightly surprised by the request, but certainly not opposed. One stop to the nearest ABC later and he’s taking a movie out of its sleeve as Scully sheds her jacket in his kitchen.

“Young Frankenstein?” Her tone is playfully perplexed, her eyebrow arched. She’s smooth as butter popping the cap off of the Shiner Bock and he documents another Dana Scully tidbit: she knows her way around a bottle opener. She’s far more comfortable than he imagined she would be. He smiles as he takes his first sip and sinks into his well-worn spot on the couch.

“Purely for the scientific implications, of course.” She matches his smirk and takes a seat on the other end of his couch.

“Did you know that there really were scientific backings to the concept of post-mortem reanimation at the time _Frankenstein_ was written? Very little was understood of electricity then. So little, in fact, that scientists couldn’t agree on whether it was generated within animals themselves or from conducive metals. It was therefore entirely possible in their eyes that, medically speaking—“

“I’m going to drink every time you use your medical or trivia knowledge to kill a joke.” He takes another sip while the tape rewinds.

“If you want to make a drinking game out of it, I suggest you start with drinking every time Gene Wilder says _it’s pronounced Frankensteen_ ,” Scully challenges. Mulder decides it actually isn’t a bad idea.

“Don’t forget about when Igor talks to the camera.”

She chuckles dryly, pulls one leg up under her, and turns her body to face him. She is smiling with her eyes.

“And when someone says ‘doctor.’”

They come up with a solid five or six rules by the time the VCR clicks to signal that the tape is ready. Halfway through the movie, they’re both three beers deep.

“Drink!!” Scully exclaims, and Mulder takes a gulp as Igor deadpans into the camera. Mulder lets out a belch and Scully erupts into laughter beside him, swatting at his arm in a near miss. Fun fact of the night number three: Scully is a lightweight.

The credits roll and Scully is spread lengthwise across Mulder’s couch, feet resting on his legs. He doesn’t remember getting into this position but it’s …nice. There are no thoughts of Boggs, and he’s temporarily forgotten his injuries. He puts his beer down on the coffee table and looks over at Scully. She gives him a slow smile, meeting his gaze with heavy eyelids.

“Mm I’m gonna head home now I think,” she half-slurs, and swings her legs around. When she attempts to stand, her balance is off and she plops right back down onto the couch with an “oof” and a quick burst of laughter.

“Scully, you’re drunk. You’re not driving.” Mulder is a little lightheaded himself as he stands to grab his cellular phone from the kitchen counter to call her a taxi. He nearly offers to let her stay, but instead has to curse himself for putting off replacing his mattress for so long. Without a bed, there is only the couch. Sleeping on the couch is fine for him, but the floor? He’s not _that_ drunk.

“Mulder, I’m fine,” he hears as he calls a cab. Her voice is a lot more level and he turns to look at her, sitting there on his couch. He’s fascinated by how she carries her strength in a jutted chin and square shoulders, even drunk. He remembers, then, why he invited her up. Another observation quells any remaining worries he has about the aftermath of this case. For the fourth time that night, he commits something to memory about his partner: her eyes burn fire-blue. She will be okay.


End file.
